Urk.

[midnightdiddle]

I might have written Good Omens fanfiction.

Don't hurt me?



Crowley hated to dream.

Once upon a time, during his first couple of thousand of years, he'd found it intriguing, to dream just like humans. It'd been almost an act of rebellion, to go native, to dream.

He hated it now.

He'd learned to stop dreaming, sometime around the eleventh century. He'd gotten away with it, too, for a couple a hundred of years. He even made it through the entire fourteenth century without a whisper of a dream. Impressive, he'd thought.

He'd started dreaming again.

He blamed it on the not-so-successful Apocolypse.

Aziraphale said it was only a matter of time. Heaven would sort things out, and Hell probably would, too, since you couldn't really have one without the other, and then it'd be back to the flaming swords and the rest of that rot.

Sometimes, Crowley wanted to kick the angel.

Crowley crawled out of his bed, feeling curiously like a kicked dog, however strange it was to feel that way, and then crawled back in, because he couldn't see any good reason to remain up. Maybe later he'd do something; start up a mild panic, create a few traffic jams. Now, though, he was going to burrow under the covers, eyes wide open, and feel sickeningly like a human, because he was cold.

Cold.

Crowley didn't like the cold. It made him feel sluggish, slow and stupid. It made this body Hell had given him shiver, spasms that made him feel spastic. The cold made his skin break out in uncomfortable goosebumps. It made him widen his eyes, and hiss a little.

Made him think of Heaven.

Heaven was a cold place, of cold white stone on cold white stone. There wasn't any warmth there, none that Crowley could remember. Everything about Heaven had been cold, from the flat white pavement to the flat white walls, closing everything in. Big, blank, and empty.

Worst part had been the angels. They'd all been cold, too, from their cold white faces to their cold white hands. They'd exuded cold, just like they'd exuded beauty; like the old Greek statues, only older. They'd been so severe, freezing in their unforgiving beauty and power and hate, because angels weren't all good like they said. Angels hated other angels, hated other angels who made the mistake of fucking up and looking around. Couldn't look around, not when you were an angel. Had to stare straight ahead, cold and cold and cold, with no smiling or blinking or thinking. Best not worry about others, boy, 'cause you're an angel, and angels didn't care. They were too busy, feeling God's love and praise and beauty, to do something as warm and disgustingly human as think and care and maybe wonder. But there hadn't been humans then. There'd just been Satan and Beelzebub and Azazel and the rest, and somehow Crowley had happened in among them.

He hadn't meant to do much, but he'd been so cold, under the white eyes and white hands, and then he'd hated it, hated the other angels, because the beautiful, cold angels had hated him, and he'd been confused, and then he was in Hell, floating in water that was hot enough to burn him. And for the first time in an eternity, because Crowley couldn't remember a time when he didn't exist, because angels had always existed, he hadn't been cold.

He still hated angels; Michael and Raphael, the Metatron and Uriel. He hated that he still thought of them sometimes, that sometimes, when he dreamed, he dreamed of them.

Sometimes he hated his angel, too. When Aziraphale would look at him with exasperiation, or with pity, or even with faint disgust, Crowley would feel cold, because Aziraphale had cold eyes, too. Aziraphale was an angel, full of God's love and God's pride and God's knowledge, and you couldn't be all those things, and not be cold.

And so Crowley's eyes were wide open, and his mind was wide shut, because he'd dreamed of Aziraphale, and the Apocolypse, and the Antichrist, but worst of all, he'd dreamed of Heaven, with the cold eyes trapping him beneath the cold walls.

And he hated it.

It wasn't hard, to hate things like he hated them, when you were a demon. It was red-hot and angry in his chest, beneath the numb body he wore like a shell. His hate was burning, because he imagined it so, because he couldn't believe that now, even now, when he was damned for being scared, he wasn't any different from the angels.

Cold enough to burn.

Maybe when he was warmer, he'd go driving in his Bentley. He'd pass the speedlimit, move up to flying, low on the ground, on wheels that never touched the pavement. Maybe he'd spritz his plants, or maybe he'd go feed the ducks. Maybe he'd even see his angel.

Such a cold-eyed angel.



PS: KH2 EQUALS LOVE.

PPS: I need sleep. It's very late. Or very early.

PPPS: I am not to blame for the ficlet/drabble/thing. It is late. I am incoherent. dragon_bite is the one who introduced me to Good Omens. Blame it upon her.

PPPPS: I must stop. Good night. I love you all. I love KH2 more, but I don't hold it against you. <3~

Comments

[midnightdiddle.livejournal.com]

*loves forever and ever and ever*

Thank you so much. This terrified me. Writing it, you know, because Good Omens is so- I mean, it's- Gah. Scary to write for. *cling* Thank you.

They'd been so severe, freezing in their unforgiving beauty and power and hate, because angels weren't all good like they said. That sentence? And the paragraph containing it? Are just very, woderfully gorgeous.

Thank you so much. This is like, the best thing that's happened to me for a long time, 'cause this is the first time in a long time I've written something so absolutely scary for me. Thank you.